Summer approaches … and that means, for me, it’s Stevie time.
I’ve never been sure what made Stevie my particular diva. Certainly, Edge of Seventeen came right as I was on the edge of that age. MTV was in full force by the time Stand Back came out, and I twirled around on the harvest gold shag carpet of my parents’ living room, dreaming one day I would get out of North Carolina and be rich and famous, and have coffee with Stevie and talk about vaguely witchy things with her.
The years passed, and while Stevie did Talk To Me through her lyrics, I didn’t seem to be going anywhere. I yearned to be a Gypsy, to make this starling fly for days. I grew up (somewhat) and twirled less, but never gave up the hopes and crystal visions I had for myself. I ached with Stevie for all the lost loves, potential loves and all the nuances of love that she sang about and I carved out spaces in every relationship I had that fit her lyrics. Crazy, I think now … but I always tried to live by the light of desire.
Every summer, something seems to trigger a wave of Stevie nostalgia. Recent tweets from a porn star I follow have burst that dam and I drown in the sea of love. Love for Stevie, love for the humid Southern summers where I longed to be more than a gawky gay kid, Free Fallin’ from towers of shame and hope, love for the man who would stay deep inside my heart.
Now? I Can’t Wait. I’ve achieved great success on a lot of levels – love, some bucket lists done – but I still want to be One More Big Time Rock and Roll Star. I stare into the ghosts of the future I’m still so frightened of … but the blue crystal mirror is always truthful.
Starting the fire is easy – the hardest part is learning how to keep the flame.
Thanks Stevie, for helping me learn how.